


Sigrun's Shenanigans

by LooNEY_DAC



Series: LooNEY_DAC's SSSS Backstory Thingies [3]
Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: As narrated by Sigrun, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-09-14 10:40:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9178057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LooNEY_DAC/pseuds/LooNEY_DAC





	1. Prologue - More than Meets the Eide

It seemed to be a law of nature that when two or more people gathered around a campfire in the depths of night, stories happened. Tall tales, ghost stories, horror and humor--these and more would well forth, even from the people you least expected.

It wasn’t the party’s first night in the Silent World by any means; Reynir’s presence at the fire was proof enough of that. Nevertheless, there was something about that particular night that led the odd assortment of plunderers to build and congregate around a bright, roaring fire, to the great delight of Emil.

Whatever force it was that had compelled them to their places around the fire also loosened Sigrun’s tongue considerably--a rare event when alcohol was not involved. She began to relate tales from her youth to her new comrades-in-arms.

Sigrun proved an unexpectedly compelling storyteller, and soon even Emil was hanging on her every word, rather than staring worshipfully into the flames.

Spellbound, the five of them listened as Sigrun told her tales...


	2. The Tale of Old Man MacMurray

When I was a kid in Dalsnes, there was This One House that had been empty for like twenty years. Everybody in town knew about it, but nobody _talked_ about it, just like nobody went there or even looked at it if they were nearby.

Now, back in the 20s and 30s, the few die-hard Scots settlements that had been grimly hanging on in their old homes finally wised up and came over to Norway in dribbles and drabs, and a couple of them made it to Dalsnes. One of them was Old Man MacMurray.

See, I never met the man, personally; he was long dead before the world created my magnificence. The stories he left behind, though--I saw the most fearless Hunters go pale when his name was mentioned, and I really think most of those who knew him would rather take on a giant in single combat than spend an hour in his company.

So. Old Man MacMurray took over this one house; I’m not sure whether he bought it, it was given to him, or he just _demanded_ it, but he got it somehow, and he held onto it as his fathers had held to their little Highland hamlets.

As he got older, he got more and more reclusive, and more and more terrifying. People began to whisper about Dark Scots magic, up to and including child sacrifices at the waxing of the moon, but no one could _prove_ anything, and when the local _seiðkarl_ came by, he _said_ there was nothing wrong with the place--but everyone knew he was as scared of Old Man MacMurray as everyone else.

Well, finally he died--from what I heard, he had a stroke while arguing over some petty thing or another in the mead-hall--and the fear of him lingered on. It took more than ten years for someone to dare to even look into That House, and when they did... Let’s say they were lucky to have friends standing outside, OK?

Now, kids are kinda silly sometimes; even I was, if you can believe it. There were a pack of us that palled around back when I was in my single digits; most lost interest once we started Hunting training, but this was just before that, so I was maybe... ten? Eleven? Anyway, naturally I was the ringleader, and the most best one the Dalsnes youth had ever seen, but back then, I didn’t know how to spot mutiny in the works.

The challenge came out of the blue: I was to prove my mettle by spending 48 hours straight in That Old House. Again, kids can be kinda silly; he actually thought I’d refuse! Weird. Although, I’ll admit I had a bit of a crazy moment just as I was going into That House where I wanted to turn around and run, but _I’m Sigrun Eide_ , and Eides only run if it’ll save someone else; no Eide runs from their own death.

It was actually pretty boring in there, so I fell asleep pretty quickly. My dreams were of Old Man MacMurray trying to chase me off, but I tied him up in the chains he rattled at me, caught the torches he threw at me and threw them back, and out-yelled him when he finally faced me down. I told him who I am and _dared_ him to come after me, and he backed down. Yeah, those dreams were _fun_.

I had rather expected some of the gang to come in and try to pull pranks on me, but none did, or they all _said_ they hadn’t tried to; anyway, not a thing happened to me the whole two days, though I searched That House from top to bottom.

One odd thing that wasn’t a prank _did_ happen, though. I was looking through Old Man MacMurray’s desk when an old letter popped out from a secret drawer--and it had my name on it! Of course, I’d forgotten my grandmother had the same name as I, so when I took it to my Dad, he laughed at my claims of Old Man MacMurray somehow scrying out my incursion into That House.

The letter turned out to be, of all things, a love letter, though _Oldemor_ Sigrun was quite Old Man MacMurray’s elder. It just goes to show how you never know about some people.

The kid who challenged me didn’t dare show his face around Dalsnes for a good long while; in fact, since Hunter training started so soon thereafter, I don’t think I’ve seen him since. You can probably tell that I count it as no great loss, though it _is_ a bit weird in a small town like Dalsnes.

But that reminds me of another story...


	3. How the Whale-Beast Fell

So, I told you how I don’t really like going after water-bound grosslings on land, but this one was different.

This one almost destroyed Dalsnes all by itself, and of course, _I_ was the one who finally killed it.

Well, _of course_ the others _helped;_ but my final blow was the killing blow.

See, this sea-beast wasn’t just a turned seal, or even a former orca, which can get really nasty, believe me. No, this was something different. When we looked at its corpse, the wisest of our elders said that it had once been the greatest and rarest of whales, the _Blue Whale_.

Whatever it had been, it was a grossling now; moreover, it counted as a giant by size alone, even among the oversized sea-beasts. The thing was hundreds of meters long, and it seemed like every bit of it was a flailing tentacle, a slashing rib-claw, or a ravening pseudo-maw.

It was pretty arrogant, too: it swam right up our fjord and hit Dalsnes directly, after smashing all the barriers in its way, like there was nothing we could do that would stop it.

Nobody in the Known World ever survived by _giving up_ , and Dalsnes in particular is not home to those who would be inclined to do so. Even the non-immunes were shooting and throwing spears at the thing before it even pulled itself out of the water--some of them were even crying with joy at finally being able to fight.

Well, as soon as it appeared, we threw everything we had at it--even a couple of the longships in port tried ramming the thing, but nothing happened. It just kept pulling itself forward with all those tentacles and rib-claws, as though we were tossing spitballs its way.

It was making its way up the main street towards the feasting hall, pausing to grab at anyone who got too close, and not a thing we were doing had even slowed it down.

This was where I came in.

See, I’d been watching the thing really carefully since it pulled itself ashore, studying it to find that one weak spot all grosslings have: its brain. It took me almost half an hour of looking really hard to spot it, and of course the thing kept its brains more or less in the center of its mass of lashing death.

My Dad has this really super huge sword he got from one of the Old Scots who came to Dalsnes with Old Man MacMurray; they call it a “Claymore”, and it’s almost too big to use when you’re troll Hunting, so he keeps it in a place of honor in his and Mom’s trophy room. I made tracks to break it out, believe me.

So, I knew where the thing’s kill-spot was, and I had a weapon that could finish it off, but how could I get to it?

I had pretty much resolved that I’d have to try a flying leap from one of the nearby buildings as the thing went past, but Fate decreed otherwise. As I was looking at the buildings to figure out which I should jump from, Crazy Ivor called to me.

Crazy Ivor. That guy helped me get in more trouble than any ten of the other kids in Dalsnes, and now, he was going to help me save Dalsnes.

Being launched from a catapult--OK, Ivor called it a “trebuchet”, but a catapult’s a catapult--well, it’s seriously fun. I almost forgot why I was doing it, it was so fun. Be that as it may, I landed right where I should, using the force of my landing to drive the claymore right into the Whale-Beast’s brain.

I was cutting, hacking and slashing for a good five minutes more before the thing finally bit the dust, but in the end, I lasted longer than it did.

And speaking of outlasting things, that reminds me of another story...


	4. The Courtship of Fru General Eide

Now, I told you all how my Mom finally got sick of waiting for Dad to spit it out and proposed to him on their first shared battlefield, right? What I _didn’t_ say is how Dad had a rival for her hand, but only after they’d both been made generals!

I was only a toddler at the time--my grossling kill count was only at three, if you can believe it--so I wasn’t really paying attention to _adult stuff_ like that. Mom and Dad actually liked to tell the story, though, since it shows how the martial virtue of fortitude can help you win battles you don’t even know you’re fighting.

Anyway, this one year, Mom went to Sweden to help with the Cleansing campaign, and she came back with a beau! Everyone was shocked that the idiot had followed her back home after a campaign fling, but wherever she went on her duties, there he was.

He was a big, husky blond Swede who thought that being a Swede made him better than anyone else around--even though he was only a captain. That, and the fact that he was trying to break up Dalsnes’ favorite couple, ensured the whole town went out of their way to make life miserable for him. You wouldn’t believe the pranks they pulled on him-- _No_ , Mikkel, I won’t give you any details; you’d use them on some Danish stuffed shirt and the details would get back to Trond and he’d _know_ that I told you!

Anyway, more or less everybody got in on the schemes except Mom and Dad. You see, Dad knew Mom liked having the wuss around--and he was a total wuss, not like my little Viking here--and Dad was and is man enough to let himself be talked about behind his back, if it would make Mom happy. So Dad stayed away from the various plots and schemes too.

The wussy Swede was quite a wuss, let me tell you; I’m still surprised he made Captain, unless it was by being some Swede general’s boy-toy, because he sure was no leader. Half the time we let him lead a Hunting sortie, he’d come back with half the troops ready to knife him in the back.

Now, Mom says she lost patience with the wuss long before the end, and I’m inclined to believe her; but Dad says that Mom still wasn’t too keen on letting the wuss go, and I can see that, too; I’ve seen enough stuff limp on well after its time because one or both parties couldn’t _quite_ make themselves let go that it’s plausible. Regardless, the wuss stayed almost a year, but neither our pranks nor our troll season did for him in the end.

What finally happened was that Mom actually got caught up in one of the nastier pranks they’d laid for the wuss, and _of course_ a grossling was handy to try to take advantage of it. Well, the wuss fainted instead of fighting, and Mom was about looking for her ride to Valhalla when Dad came in.

You see, Dad had been watching from the wings, mostly for his own amusement at seeing the wuss flail like a fool--seriously, Blondie, you did better than him on our first raid--but when he saw Mom was actually in danger, Dad didn’t wait a minute before jumping in. He let the grossling wail on him so Mom could get her breath back and finish it off, which she did.

The wuss had been watching through his supposed faint, and when he “came to”, he knew the only thing he could do was leave, so he did. You’re right, Short Stuff, it certainly _did_ take him long enough to get the message.

But speaking of messages, that reminds me of the time...


	5. The Chicken Outfit

I was posted to command the Chicken Outfit, once, to send a message to everybody that nobody gets away with bad stuff, no matter who they’re related to.

Now, you guys have to understand, Dalsnes has kind of a _reputation_ in Norway, since we like putting our own spin on things instead of just doing it strictly by-the-book all the time. I mean, there’s a time for strict protocol, and there’s other times when you’ve just gotta wing it, y’know? Anyway, one of the things where we go our own way in Dalsnes is the Chicken Outfit.

The Chicken Outfit is where we send anybody that’s turned chicken—unless somebody outright _died_ because of it: that’s when The Law steps in; but mostly our guys can get out of that kind of scrape without getting killed.

When you’re assigned to the Chicken Outfit, your ultimate aim is supposed to be to get out of it and back to your unit, and we have all sorts of things built into the Chicken Outfit to encourage that. Now, I know what all of you want to ask: how do I get out of this Chicken Outfit?

First, you have to earn the right not to wear the Chicken Outfit’s Chicken Outfit in the first place. So, to get out of the Chicken Outfit, you start by getting out of the Chicken Outfit. Now, if I were really pulling your chains, I’d try adding a third or even fourth level to that, but I have no clue how I’d pull it off, so you can rest assured I’m not. Not _this_ time, anyway.

So, when you’re assigned to the Chicken Outfit, you’re issued a different uniform that is essentially a chicken costume, which you have to wear at all times, unless you’re bathing. Before you can go back to wearing a real uniform, you have to undergo a Trial of Bravery and not chicken out, while wearing the Chicken Outfit in the Chicken Outfit.

Anyway, once you’re out of the Chicken Outfit but in the Chicken Outfit, to get out of the Chicken Outfit, you need to stand not a few Outside Watches or take point on several raids, depending on what time of year it is. If you’re _really_ unlucky, you could find yourself stuck in the Chicken Outfit all winter, which can get bad.

See, even when you’re… _in normal uniform_ in the Chicken Outfit, you’re wearing a big ol’ insignia that everybody knows means you’re in the Chicken Outfit, which can make you a target for some people, though we have people on watchdog duty to make sure it doesn’t get out of hand. Unfortunately, we’ve had a few times that proved the wisdom of not letting anybody who actually caused somebody’s death into the Chicken Outfit, and that’s all I’ll say about that, thank you.

Now, _commanding_ the Chicken Outfit is different from _being in_ the Chicken Outfit; officers who turn chicken get busted back into the ranks and _then_ dropped into the Chicken Outfit. But _somebody_ has to lead an outfit, even the Chicken Outfit, and it’s considered a slap in the face to be that leader, but even there, I showed that I was the most best.

You see, the _real_ purpose of the Chicken Outfit is to try to get the chicken out of them before it can do any harm, either to others or to themselves; that’s why we have the Trials and such set up like we do, so a young fool can’t get himself killed trying to get out.

Of course, some never get out, but we try to weed out that type before they ever get into a combat unit in the first place.

And speaking of weeding out, that reminds me of another story…


End file.
